


Cultigen

by erin_myecourt



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, dystopian themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erin_myecourt/pseuds/erin_myecourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A decade after the war, wizarding Britain has learned how to cleanse its citizens of Dark magic. The process, Taming, erases violence, viciousness, hatred, and according to Draco Malfoy, a person’s soul. In order to save his friends, Draco must prove that Taming might, in fact, be the cruelest magic ever conceived. The only problem is... he needs to convince Harry Potter first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cultigen

**Author's Note:**

> For Glompfest 2011: Thank you to the mods for all their hard work in organizing and managing the fest and also for allowing me to remain anonymous. Arianna, you requested a Post-Hogwarts, dystopian, magical AU, EWE, angsty, getting-together, NC17 fic that included a happy ending, lots of UST, IC Harry and Draco, and bickering—with a side of kissing against walls, sex, and a plot. I honestly tried to get it all in there. I hope you enjoy the story. Thank you, and everyone, for supporting fandom in your actions, words, minds, and hearts.

_Plants do not grow merely to satisfy ambitions or to fulfill good intentions. They thrive because someone expended effort on them._  
~Liberty Hyde Bailey

 

_History will show that Taming altered the evolution of our species—the evolution of magic— in the same manner as it did our culture._  
~Hermione Granger

 

 

The rape occurred in the meadow, in mid-afternoon, the woman’s furtive moans eclipsed by the sway of breeze-ruffled grasses. Out of sight, just over the rise and inside the tree line, water gurgled over rocks, cool and soothing, but in the clearing, the air was heavy with warmth and sunlight. Harry caught Hermione’s eye over the woman’s prone figure, pretending the flare of sadness he saw there was nothing but a trick of the heat, or maybe of the sharply angled afternoon light. 

"Please," the woman—their candidate—whispered.

Harry reached into his memory for her name but came up blank. It wasn't a surprise. He’d had dozens beg him over the years, several in these last months alone. Tears tracked down her face, catching on the shells of her ears before finding the path of least resistance across her throat and onto her shoulder—down, down they dripped. Not unlike the stream beyond the trees. 

"I’m ready," she pleaded. "I’ve waited so long for this. I want—need it." She reached first for Harry, then, perhaps seeing something on his face that clashed with wildflowers and sunshine, turned to Hermione, and held out one shaking hand. Hypnotized, Harry watched it tremble in time with the windswept grass. 

He intoned the ritual words. "Do you understand—?"

"Yes, yes!" Her gaze whipped back to his face. "Do it!"

The end of the sentence turned to ash in his mouth, and Hermione picked up the thread as if he’d never paused, their routine a well-choreographed dance. "—the choice you are making, and do you accept your new responsibilities as well as your freedoms?"

The witch strained upward, pulling against imagined bonds. It wasn’t the first time Harry had seen such a display. The eager ones fancied the Taming a gift, one they didn’t deserve, and one that set them free. "I avail myself to the needs of our world and its government. I understand, and I accept. Please. Don’t make me wait any longer." Her tears spilled faster. "I want to be saved."

The perspiration turned icy on Harry’s skin. 

"Harry." Hermione’s whisper-soft voice broke his paralysis. His wand didn’t waver as he brandished it; he’d long ago learned to control the physical manifestations of his own misgivings. As for how much longer he could play the part of saviour, that remained to be seen. Forever, with his luck.

"Then I Tame you…" His throat closed, and again Hermione saved him. 

"I Tame you, Helen Hazelpot, in the name of peace and goodwill, cooperation and understanding, for the betterment of our society and the wizarding world as a whole."

She cued Harry with her eyes, the signal too overt, not that Helen noticed, but it bothered Harry that she thought he needed prompting. This part of things was as second nature as breathing or Apparating. No longer a talent that was all his own, for he’d been encouraged to share the particulars of the spell long ago, he nonetheless executed a Taming with more skill and less pain—and perhaps greater compassion—than anyone else. What he’d never shared, not even with Hermione—though he suspected she knew—was that a Taming hurt everyone. Harry simply absorbed the pain for certain candidates. That was the plain truth, and he couldn’t explain why he chose who suffered and who didn’t. 

He selected as arbitrarily as a god might.

Today, he was too tired to take any of it, so when he touched the tip of his wand to Helen’s temple, she shrieked, and her back arched off the ground again, this time with considerably more force. He spoke the spell quickly—the pain would be no more intense, but its duration would be shortened. It was the least he could do… even if she had begged for it.

As always, Hermione picked up the pieces while Harry stumbled away to retch into the grass. Just water; he never ate on the day of a Taming.

His back creaked as he straightened, the series of pops mixing with Hermione’s lyrical voice as it floated past him on a conjured wind. Heavy with the smell of flowers, the air wafted over his face, drying the sheen of clammy sweat. The fragrance was Hermione’s special touch. Harry had often wondered how many people recognized the scent as gardenia, which didn’t grow wild in this part of Britain. If any candidate ever noted the incongruity, they never said. 

"How do you feel, Helen?" Hermione prodded.

From the corner of his eye, Harry watched Hermione help the witch to her feet, then steady her when she stumbled. The woman’s slackened features and ghost of a smile meant success. Congratulations, Harry. You’ve created another model citizen. He swiped a hand over his mouth, turned away and waited, hands linked behind his neck, eyes on the horizon, while Hermione led the newly-Tamed Helen through a copse of trees to the bank of the small stream. 

"People of all walks of life view water as a cleansing agent, Harry," she’d told him once, long ago. "It’s symbolic. We’re washing away the Dark. Creating new beginnings. Wherever we do this, they must wake to a peaceful setting. And there must be water."

And so there was a brook, not that it flowed naturally. The meadow, the trees, and the stream were nothing but an elaborate set, with features that Harry (but usually Hermione) could change at will, should either feel a candidate would react badly to one element or another. Their own private Eden, where people entered burdened by evil thoughts and Dark knowledge and left happy. 

Harry’s work was done; the rest he usually left to Hermione. Today, however, his feet carried him not towards the edge of the meadow, where he could pass through the wards, Apparate, and be back in his office with a cuppa in under two minutes, but towards the sound of quiet feminine voices. 

He’d caught the fatigue in Hermione’s gestures. The fine lines twisting away from the corners of her eyes had been more pronounced of late—far too pronounced for her twenty-seven years—nudging awake protective instincts he hadn’t felt in ages. Since the war, actually. 

He broke through the trees upstream from the pair and hesitated, watching Hermione hold Helen’s hands in hers as she spoke. Every few seconds, Helen nodded and smiled. Detaching one hand from Hermione’s, she hiked up her long skirt and dipped one bare toe into the water. The tension that had bunched her shoulders close to her ears had vanished. Serene, she seemed at peace. A small fish jumped close to her foot, sparking delighted laughter, and she pointed, giggling. Hermione forced an answering smile. 

It was more a grimace than a grin, and it twisted Harry’s already touchy stomach. Then Hermione lifted her gaze, met his eyes, and he caught his breath at how the twinge of earlier sadness was now in full bloom across her face.

It took him seconds to reach her side. "Go on. I’ll take care of her."

His alarm grew when she agreed without a fuss. "She shouldn’t need much time," Hermione said, smoothing Helen’s hair from her brow. "Another hour, perhaps. Just be here for her as she acclimates."

"She’s quite strong," Harry said.

"Yes." Her gaze unreadable, Hermione squeezed his hand. "It’s why she’s here, isn’t it?"

 

 

Neville threw him the briefest of glances when Harry slunk in through his front door two hours later. "You look awful," he offered over his shoulder. 

It was everyone’s standard greeting for Harry these days; he’d stopped hearing the concern in the words months ago. He grunted an answer, ignoring the good-natured insult out of respect for whatever complicated experiment Neville was wrist-deep in—wrist-deep being literal; the repotting involved some of the blackest soil Harry had ever seen and a green fern-like plant. He scuffed his toe on the stone floor and cast an eye at the corked bottle of merlot on the counter. 

Neville stood between him and it. Rotten luck.

"You know, Harry?" Neville patted the strong smelling compost around the fern’s roots. "I sometimes have to wonder which you care for more: me or my wine?" He tempered the far too honest question with a fond smile.

"It’s your house, if you must know," Harry answered. He loved how Neville’s compact cottage opened up into a vast greenhouse at the back, wizard space all of it, with smaller glass-encased rooms shooting off at various angles, and in the furthest reaches of those rooms, plants that, in all likelihood, would never enjoy a shaft of natural sunlight. "And all the mad things you grow in it."

They shared a laugh at that. Neville shrugged and moved to rinse the soil from underneath his fingernails. "It keeps me busy. Idle hands… you know what they say."

"The Devil’s workshop." Harry gave up resisting the burgundy ambrosia and helped himself to a glass from the cupboard. Neville shook his head when Harry thought—belatedly—to offer him one as well. 

"You look like you need it more than I do." 

The truth, without a doubt. The first swig set his stomach on fire, and Neville rolled his eyes at Harry’s bitter grimace. "Try putting some food in there first."

"In the bottle or the glass?"

"Have something to eat, Harry. I know you haven’t touched a thing all day. You never do if there’s a Taming on your schedule." Neville swept away the last of the rich-smelling loam, wiped the countertop, and set about pulling food into the open: eggs, cheese, and bread. "Would you like two or three eggs in your omelet?" 

The gesture was a bit too much to bear. Harry filled his mouth with wine and blamed the sting in his throat on the tannin. "Two," he said when he was able. Then, shamed, he added, "Thank you." 

After that, they fell into the comfortable silence of old and well-worn friends. Harry topped off his glass, took his wine, and wandered, knowing Neville wouldn’t mind him poking into the far corners of the greenhouse, though some of the plants that grew there weren’t necessarily legal by wizarding standards. 

Neville found him stroking the leaves of a woody vine that twined twenty feet up the mullioned glass—which it had managed to do since the last time Harry had visited. Less than a week, if memory served. He jerked his thumb at the mystery plant as he took the plate Neville handed over. "That wasn’t here on Saturday." 

"Hmmm," Neville answered. 

Harry accepted the fork with more grace than he did Neville’s enigmatic smile. "I won’t breathe a word, I promise," he said around a mouthful of fluffy eggs. "What is it?" 

"I’d rather not say yet, if it’s all the same." Neville led him back over the uneven stone floor and through the doors into the kitchen. "It’s still in the preliminary stages of development."

"Aphrodisiac?"

It comforted Harry in all sorts of ways that he could still make Neville blush. "You’d like that, wouldn’t you?" Neville murmured. He doused the kitchen lights with a wand swish and steered Harry to the sofa. "If only you invited yourself into my bed with as much gusto as you spouted innuendo and appropriated my wine. The nights would pass much more pleasantly."

That they would. Harry had given it more than a passing thought, especially as Neville's offers weren't exactly subtle. A mix of sex and friendship worked for some; it had never worked for Harry. And to lose Neville… that possibility was a powerful deterrent. 

"Let’s not revisit that old subject tonight," Neville said, brushing the rejection aside with his usual understanding. "Did today’s Taming go badly?"

No, not at all. And it might have been that fact that was making Harry’s head pound, despite the fortifying food and alcohol. "No, it was fine. The candidate did well, and she’s a strong witch—the strongest I’ve seen in months. She tested…." Harry gulped more wine. "She was harboring a maliciousness we don’t see very much anymore. It wasn’t born of desperation, or hate, or even love." Much viciousness had a root in love. "It was an honest desire to cause pain and suffering."

"And with that level of Darkness, she requested a Taming?" Neville’s tone indicated he found the fact surprising. He wasn’t the only one. Harry nodded, answering both the spoken and unspoken questions. 

"She was sociopathic; there was no doubt. Most of the evil ones run the other way or go underground when we get close."

"Interesting," Neville muttered, understating the situation to such an extent that Harry gave it another clinical look. It had been unusual. In fact, a year ago such an event would have been the subject of discussion for weeks. With Dark magic practically eradicated, and those who would wield it cleansed by the Taming, Helen Hazelpot was a rather notable, evil exception. After all, the first candidates hadn’t lined up willingly. Those with Dark rivers running through their heart preferred to stay that way, as a rule. 

That was all beside the point. It wasn’t Hazelpot who worried him.

"Hermione," Harry said, then found it impossible to find his way past her name. Ever helpful, Neville nodded. 

"How is she feeling?"

That sounded ominous. Harry scowled. "Fine? Why shouldn’t she be?"

"I believe I’ll have that wine now," Neville said in answer, running his tongue over his teeth and levering to his feet. Incensed, Harry followed him to the kitchen. The only place Neville could run from there was the greenhouse. Large it might have been, but not so vast that Neville could hide forever. The man was a Gryffindor, besides. Not a coward in any sense of the word. No, this had been a calculated retreat—a way for his friend to judge just how neglectful Harry had been of Hermione’s well-being without making him look like a horse’s ass for his inattention.

"All right then." Harry frowned as the last drops of Merlot fell into Neville’s glass. "What’s wrong with her? Is she ill?"

"No, Harry. She’s not ill."

"Then?"

Neville cringed. The gesture itself wasn’t out of character, but paired with a conversation about Hermione Granger, it raised enough flags in Harry’s mind that his heartburn came back twofold. Anxiety tipped the scales, outweighing his curiosity. "Spit it out, Nev." And why, why, why, he wanted to ask, was this conversation not taking place in reverse? If anyone should be privy to Harry’s best friend’s private matters, it was Harry. 

Neville began, "You’ve been preoccupied," which was putting the matter more delicately than it deserved. Harry had been on a different planet, and he knew it. 

"I’ve been… distracted," Harry admitted. 

"The thing is… she’s having…."

All manner of horrible things crossed Harry’s mind. 

"Second thoughts," Neville finished, then turned away, by all accounts at the end of his explanation. Harry waited, just to be sure, then took an extra several seconds to school the tone of his next question.

"About what, if I may ask?"

"Sorry?" Neville squeaked. His wide-eyed surprise pushed Harry to the edge of his patience.

"What is she having second thoughts about?"

"The Tamings, of course. What else?" 

What else, indeed? Except, had their discussion evolved into a guessing game, Harry would have come out the unequivocal loser. The idea that Hermione would question Taming, in any form… well, Neville could have said, "I’ve spoken to Hermione, and she’s decided there’s no need for this silly thing known as a library," and Harry would have been more inclined to believe that.

His answer—"I don’t understand"—felt thick and wrong in his mouth. Because, after all, the rape occurred in mid-afternoon amid the tall grasses of a meadow. His own thoughts, his own word. "She never mentioned anything about this to me," Harry said. Nothing at all, and of the two epiphanies, he found this one the most disturbing. 

Neville shrugged. "I’m sure she would’ve in time. You must be able to imagine how difficult this is for her?"

Stifling the childlike urge to lump himself among the suffering, Harry nodded. "Of course." Taming had been Hermione’s brainchild. Her gift to the wizarding world. And even if Harry had never been anything more than the living, breathing vessel that delivered it, his culpability equaled hers in every way. She’d asked him—when the concept had occurred to her—wouldn’t it be wonderful, grand, even, to be able to erase the compulsion to do harm? And Harry had answered yes. Hermione, yes, that would be the answer to everything. 

They’d had the timing right: in the wake of the war, with consensus thinking at its peak and group values unanimous and at their most expedient. Hermione’s idea had received Harry’s blessing, and the rest—as they say—was history.

"Why now?" he wondered aloud, running the empty glass along his forehead. 

Succinct, Neville answered, "Does it matter? The why?"

"Yes." Harry choked down the last of his omelet, placed the dish and goblet aside, and stood. "Of course, it does. The why is the root of everything. It always is."

 

 

Why, for instance, was Draco Malfoy lurking outside his front door?

Apparating to the outskirts of Godric’s Hollow, then walking the final mile to his home in a thick evening heat was Harry’s usual recipe for a peaceful night. If only because, by the time he arrived, his physical exhaustion matched his emotional fatigue tidily. Thirsty, sweaty, and smelling riper than Neville’s compost meant a shower and a shot of whisky would put him to sleep and keep him there until morning. Tonight, he’d forgone the walk for a more direct route to his drinks cabinet, only to find a figure hovering at the edge of his garden. 

Draco Malfoy. 

Harry recognized him on sight, but because he'd been keen to identify the intruder. Had they passed on the street, he might have walked by without noticing the man. Malfoy looked… rough. Scruffy, unshaven, with hair that, while clean, hung longer than Harry remembered. Long enough to curl over the top of his shirt collar. And he took up more space than Harry recalled. The heat of the day still hung in the air, and the robe draped over Malfoy's shoulders was unfastened, revealing a dark T-shirt beneath. The Draco Harry had gone to school with had been lean, even gaunt. He hadn't looked strong enough to pick Harry up and throw him over his shoulder. 

He snapped that line of thought too late; the image stayed with him.

Malfoy stepped forward. "I need to speak with you." 

Need—a state that implied desperation, and Malfoy did look desperate, Harry would give him that. "I have an office, you know, Malfoy," he said, canceling his wards and swinging the door wide. "A public one."

"You do," Malfoy agreed. "A very public one, in point of fact. But I thought this meeting would benefit from a measure of discretion." His voice dropped on the last word, enough so that Harry's mind went immediately where it shouldn't. He blamed the inappropriate leap of logic on Malfoy's tumbled-aristocrat appearance, which, apparently, Harry's body found appealing. 

He hesitated too long, and Malfoy took advantage. "Not that sort of discretion, Potter," he said, surprised. Despite the lack of distaste in his tone, Harry flushed.

"I have no idea what you mean," he replied, turning away and ignoring Malfoy's smirk.

"May I come in?" 

It was asked with good grace and respect, giving Harry no real reason to refuse. To be honest, he wasn't certain he wanted to—which was enough of a shock that he cast about for an excuse to do exactly that. "It's late."

"I've been standing here for three hours."

Which, translated from Malfoy, meant I expected you home quite a while ago and I don't like to be kept waiting. Malfoy spread his hands in front of him. "I've been Tamed, as you well know." 

So what are you afraid of? Harry translated.

Taming was supposed to be foolproof. On the other hand, not all antipathy had malicious roots. Which, as an idea, should have made him cautious, not hyper-focused on how Malfoy's shirt stretched across his chest. "Come in," his mouth said without his brain's permission. "How long will this take?"

Malfoy inclined his head and slipped past. "That's going to depend on you."

Harry played the proper host, leaving tea to steep in the center of the table and flanking it with a sugar bowl and creamer, then set his two cleanest cups on saucers and slid one in front of his guest. Malfoy watched it all with sharp eyes and an expression that said he hadn't forgot that Harry apparently wanted to fuck him. 

"What's this about?" Harry asked, dropping into the opposite chair. 

Face twisting, Malfoy poured the tea instead of answering. When they'd satisfied the ritual of who wanted milk, and how much, and passed the sugar back and forth, he sat back, looking nervous for the first time. "A… friend of mine has been indentified as a candidate for Taming."

Not a shock. Kindly, Harry held his tongue.

"More than one friend. Two." 

The reason for Malfoy's visit began to take shape, but Harry played dumb. As a battle tactic, it worked far more often that he cared to admit. "Yes?"

Malfoy laid his cards on the table. "I'd like you to intercede on their behalf. No," he said, cutting in front of Harry's automatic refusal, "More than that. I'd like you to meet them. Meet them, talk to them, and then explain why being Tamed is necessary."

Flabbergasted, Harry stared at him, for the first time losing sight of his simmering desire. "Do you mean," he asked, "why Taming them would be necessary?"

"No." Malfoy pressed his lips together. "I meant that you should tell them how Taming is a cruel and irreversible fate. That the spell is flawed, and that you’re sucking the very soul of out people who don't deserve to be emotionally mutilated."

There was very little to say to that except, "Are you serious?"

Malfoy's cool exterior cracked. "Serious enough to wait outside your house half the night while you're wallowing in some Muggle bar, getting your cock sucked."

The topic hit close enough to his own recent anxieties that Harry found himself lashing out in return. "Are you mad? Soul-sucking?" He let the cock-sucking comment go altogether. "Do you realize that I can have you arrested for even suggesting such a thing?"

"I do," Malfoy said, lowering his voice. "Do you realize how difficult it was to come here tonight? How many times over the years I've considered it?"

"So why now?"

"I told you why," Malfoy spat. 

Yes. His friends. "Malfoy." No, saying his name had been a mistake. Harry started again. "What are you claiming? Because I can assure you that Taming is safe—"

"Safe for whom? One of these candidates is a child. He has no idea of what's about to happen to him." Malfoy struck the table with his fist. The teacups rattled in their saucers, splashing liquid onto the wood. "You're so focused on what you're scraping out of these people that you fail to understand what it is you've left behind."

"And what would that be?" Harry whispered. 

Malfoy's gaze cut straight through him. "A ghost."

"You don't look like a ghost to me."

"You have no idea what I am." Malfoy pushed his chair back, stood, and braced himself on the table, arms straddling the spilled tea. "I—" His head dropped low between his shoulders, and given a reprieve from that intense gaze, Harry took a quiet, bracing breath. After a minute, Malfoy began again. "I'm begging you, Potter. Just come and see them. And if you think you have the stomach for it," he raised his head, "I'll tell you some of what it's like to live like this."

Harry considered the request. Did he want to know? The answer wasn't so simple, but again, what reason had he to refuse? Tamed, Malfoy was incapable of subterfuge. He should be incapable of lying, a fact Harry let escape into his subconscious before it became too frightening. He stood up as well, mimicking Malfoy's stance. "All right. I'll come. I'll see them."

The most amazing thing happened then. Malfoy smiled. A genuine smile that couldn't even be called a distant cousin to a smirk. "Forgive me. I didn't think you would," he said.

"I will," Harry affirmed. 

"When?"

When he was able to straighten out his own feelings on the subject, would have been the smartest answer. Honest, but also too revealing. As would any excuse to see Malfoy again before necessary. Though the cat was well and truly out of the bag in that regard; why bother trying to hide it? With that reckless thought in mind, Harry waited until they'd reached the front door, then caught Malfoy's left hand in his. The slender fingers felt cool against his, but where he'd expected a smooth, unblemished palm, he found calluses. Well, those matched the defined muscles across Malfoy's shoulders and chest, didn't they? The man either labored for a living—now that was difficult to picture—or played Quidditch regularly. 

Malfoy froze at the touch. "What are you doing, Potter?" 

"Something inappropriate, I'm thinking," Harry replied, shoeing the door open. "You should probably leave."

He didn't. And neither of them moved for several seconds. Then Malfoy rolled his hand to scratch his nails along the inside of Harry's wrist. As fleeting as the sensation was, it electrified, leaving Harry short of breath, aching, and desperate for more contact. "Close the door," he breathed. 

"Quiet," Malfoy said, voice a low purr. "Just be quiet for a moment."

He played his fingertips over Harry's wrist again and again, stopping occasionally to press his pulse point. Then, nostrils flaring with shallow breaths, he pulled himself free. Gaze turned inward, pensive, he ignored Harry's groan of disappointment and stepped over the threshold into the night air, closing the door behind him. 

 

 

"I’ve seen Malfoy," Harry began without preamble the next morning. It varied from their usual How was your evening? Fine. Yours? morning banter enough that Hermione didn’t answer at first.

"Draco?" she finally clarified.

"Yes, of course. As if I’d speak to the other."

Recovering, Hermione shed her coat with her usual quiet purpose, then closed the door to their shared office. Harry agreed. This wasn’t going to be a conversation he wanted broadcasted to the whole department. "I find it surprising you’d speak to either of them," Hermione said, sweeping by him to her desk. None of yesterday’s melancholy hovered about her, at least to outward appearances. Still, she’d closed their door. It wasn’t a move that spoke to sadness so much as caution. She and Malfoy were on the same page then. Apparently Harry was the only one feeling confused. The world was on its ear all of a sudden.

"Well, I did," he said. "Speak to him. It was hard not to when I found him lurking outside my house last night."

"Oh?" 

Seventeen years she’d been gracing him with that look, the one he at first considered contemptuous, then later haughty, before at last realizing it was the surest sign her mind was processing information at a high rate of speed. Information she didn’t feel prepared to share, as a rule.

"Yes. Aren’t you interested to know what he wanted?" A flicker behind her eyes confirmed Harry’s suspicions. "Or perhaps you already know?" He asked the question gently, without a trace of accusation, but she still shook her head. 

"No. I’m afraid I don’t."

Harry took his time with the next bit, removing his own coat and making himself comfortable behind his desk. His chair gave a protesting squeak when he leaned back and laced his fingers over his stomach. Hermione watched, and Harry found himself studying her, searching for what Neville claimed was there, just below the surface. He saw nothing. She may as well have been carved of marble. 

"He came to talk to me about the Tamings." He was watching for, and therefore caught, her slight gasp of surprise. "Well, not so much talk, I suppose. He wants me to meet some friends of his who've been scheduled."

"Who?" Hermione asked, voice quiet. 

And now it was Harry’s turn to be caught off guard. Damn, he hadn’t even asked the child's name. "I’m not positive. A younger candidate. A boy."

Hermione answered with a silent stare. 

"Malfoy claims…." And this was the difficult part, wasn’t it? Malfoy had claimed all sorts of things, not the least of which was implying Harry had spent the last several years complicit in the greatest evil in recorded history. Malfoy had never struck him as the dramatic sort. High-strung and misguided—and that was being kind—but his ludicrous insinuations were textbook melodramatic. So why was Harry trying to blunt his accusation? He shot another piercing look at Hermione's face. 

Marble. White marble.

Harry pushed himself out of the slouch he’d sunk into and cleared his throat against his fist—a fist so tight his fingernails cut into his palms. "He insinuated Taming is some of the Darkest magic ever created. What do you think about that?" 

That was a short and simple enough question. He leaned forward and watched for her reaction. It wasn’t what he expected. 

"I suppose I can appreciate his point of view." With a watery smile, Hermione spread her hands on the desk in front of her, dropping her eyes for the first time. "He’s been Tamed himself. And not willingly, if I recall."

Now that gave him a shock: the "if I recall". Harry remembered each and every schoolmate he’d put through the Taming, down to what they'd said, what they'd worn, and what colorful language they’d used. And Malfoy, he’d been the crowning jewel, hadn’t he? The ultimate prize, at least in Harry’s mind. And Harry’s mind was all that mattered when it came to identifying candidates. Harry’s and Hermione’s, but she’d always backed his choices. At least she always had before. She’d never spoken up in argument. 

She wasn’t speaking now either. 

"No, you recall correctly," Harry said, unable to eject all the sarcasm from his tone. 

Seeing that she’d been caught out, she flushed and nodded, then, swallowing, asked, "Have you ever wondered what it feels like?"

"Besides hurting to hell and back?"

"Yes," she answered, refusing to be baited. "Not during the Taming. That’s not what I mean. But after. Days after. Years after. Do you think…?"

He needed to get Hermione and Malfoy out for a drink together. They were more alike than anyone guessed. Unless…. "Have you spoken with him about this?" Harry asked, matching her airy tone and not clarifying whom he meant. Malfoy and Hermione. The thought turned him cold. A taste of betrayal touched his tongue, but not for the reason it should have. Hermione opened her mouth and spoke, but all Harry heard was Malfoy’s voice, roughened and pleading (quiet, just be quiet for a moment) while he pressed his fingers against Harry’s wrist. A jolt of emotion, and something else not quite so easily categorized, crackled in his chest, spreading heat to his fingers and toes. 

He came back to himself in time to hear, "So maybe it’s not." Hermione gave a one-shouldered shrug and sniffed. "I don't know." There was meant to be more, Harry was sure, but she closed her mouth on it. Her lashes looked dark and very damp. Harry floundered for a moment before deciding he'd rather face an army of dragons than ask her to repeat something that pained her. Besides, the gist of it was plain. For once, Hermione didn't know the answer to a problem. Nor did she look keen to puzzle it out. And that, Harry decided, was far scarier than getting hard for Draco Malfoy.

 

 

Malfoy's owl delivered directions on where to meet. He'd settled himself into a one-room flat in Diagon Alley, in a building that sat more in Knockturn than not, but at least the dwelling fronted respectability. And Harry found, once Malfoy managed to recover from his speechless surprise and let him inside, that the room's two high, mullioned windows afforded a nice view of Gringotts. Sunlight cut through the glass, brightening the space and seeming to lift the high ceilings even higher. There wasn't a speck of dust to be seen, even drifting through the sunbeams. There was very little of anything—just enough to keep comfortable. A bed on a simple frame, a wardrobe, a small desk no bigger than those the first years used at Hogwarts, and two cabinets framing a cracked porcelain sink—a kitchen, or what passed for one. 

Harry took note of the lack of personal items. Not a stitch of clothing, a book, or a photograph. He could have been standing in a room over the Leaky, but was first to admit that this space was far cleaner. "Hello, Malfoy," he said once he'd finished his perusal.

Malfoy looked more like himself than the other night. Or maybe that had been his new self, and this clean and coiffed man in front of Harry was a ghost of a Draco long gone. "You showered in my honor," Harry said.

Malfoy's mouth gave a twitch. "And shaved. Not that I expected you to come."

The melodrama again. "I said I would."

"You did say you would come. Just not when." Malfoy pushed the sleeves of his jumper higher over his forearms. Harry didn't let his eyes wander. Much. "Without a qualifier, I rather expected to be waiting until Christmas. Or longer."

Harry scowled, thinking the "or longer" remark was a bit uncalled for. Then again, perhaps Malfoy knew him well enough to cut through to the heart of things. Now there was an unsettling thought. Best to let it go before the theory got tested. "Sorry."

"I doubt that," Malfoy drawled, going to sit on the bed. He gestured Harry over. "Don't get the wrong idea, Potter. I’m just short on proper seating."

Not getting the wrong idea when the idea had already been broached, all the while sitting atop a cushion of soft bed sheets, was quite impossible. "Don't worry." Harry perched on the edge on the mattress, close enough to feel Malfoy's body heat. "I’m here to see the boy," he said, perpetuating their intricate dance of half-truths.

"You came alone?" Malfoy asked, cocking his head. "No reinforcements?" 

"I have nothing to fear from you, do I?" Harry replied. The rhetorical questions of all rhetorical questions.

"No, I can't hurt you." Malfoy crossed his legs and linked his hands over his knee. His booted toe brushed Harry's calf. "Not that I would have any desire to, regardless of your foul Taming magic."

Harry pulled a disbelieving laugh. "If you hadn't been Tamed, you'd beat me bloody and leave me to the vultures stalking Knockturn."

"Would I?"

"You'd need the element of surprise and a healthy amount of luck to succeed," Harry said without a trace of hubris. "But you'd try."

The smile never changed. Only Malfoy's eyes reacted, losing a bit of tension at the corners. "No, Potter. You've got that part all wrong."

"Oh, just that part?"

"That part," Malfoy whispered, "and others. It is possible, you know, to dislike a person, even despise them, and never do them any harm."

"Not that you have much experience with that."

"But it's possible," Malfoy hedged. "I used to hate you. Now…." His eyes drifted away to the window. "Now I just hate what you do." He stood without warning, and Harry's eyes too were slow to react. When he found his line of sight filled with Malfoy's crotch, he bolted to his feet as well. Malfoy gave a crooked grin. "Come on then," he said, striding across the room and snapping up his wand from the tiny desk. Let's go see William."

Too late, Harry realized his mistake. He glanced about the room once more. "He doesn't live here?"

Malfoy's answering laugh was a curious blend of bitter and amused. "Here? With me?" Draco opened the door and gestured Harry ahead of him. "What person in their right mind would allow me to foster a child?"

Harry descended the narrow stairwell with a righteous clump in his step. Had it been such a stretch to imagine it? Malfoy had been Tamed, hadn't he? He'd be as fit a parent as any, maybe better. He turned to say so when they reached the street. "I don't see why you couldn't—" 

Malfoy's expression stopped him dead. "If you're going to stew over something," Malfoy spat, stepping out of the shadows of the doorway and into the summer sunlight, "choose a more worthy subject. I neither need nor want your pity."

"And you're so sure I was going to give it?" Harry asked, calling on his training to not recoil from the venomous words. This man cannot hurt me.

"You were going to give it," Malfoy said, starting down Diagon Alley. "I've been Tamed. You still believe that's a wonderful thing, I realize, but for many people who look at me, it makes no difference at all. I will always be my crimes. Forever." He sighed, pulling ahead. "You can't not try to make things better for people, have you ever noticed?"

"And that's a bad trait?"

Ahead of him, Malfoy ducked his head. His shoulders shook, but Harry heard no laughter. "It is when you harm instead of help." He glanced over his shoulder, eyes once more cold and unreadable. "No matter what your intention."

And there was his absolution, as though Malfoy felt compelled to offer comfort for what he perceived as Harry's crimes. Why? A side effect of the Taming, maybe. On the other hand, he could be garnering as much favor as possible in advance of their visit with the boy. Harry had no idea, but the conversation was not a comfortable one, and so he let it die.

They walked no more than a block before Malfoy made a sharp right into an alley and stopped, turning to face Harry. "We'll Apparate from here, I think. Stockwell Orphanage. Are you familiar with it?"

Slowly, Harry nodded. "I know it." He wasn't about to say why.

"Then I'll meet you there," Malfoy said, offering a disarming smile before Disapparating. 

Harry took a deep breath and followed. Stockwell, he saw as the world came back into focus, looked much the same. In Dumbledore's memory, the skies had been grey, but whether or not that had been a product of the memory's mood or not, he didn't know. Today, the sun was hot enough to throw heat waves off the slate-shingled roof. The gates were freshly painted, gleaming black. Children's laughter peppered the air. 

Draco lifted his shoulders and drew a deep breath. "Is this how you remember it, Potter?"

Malfoy knew. Of course he knew. "Where's the candidate?" Harry asked, ignoring the question. 

"His name's William," Malfoy replied, voice bland, but eyes flashing. 

"Sorry. William. Where is he?" He arched one eyebrow at Malfoy, smirking as the other man turned on his heel and stalked through the gates and up to the front entrance. For all the conflicted feelings Harry was feeling in regards to Draco Malfoy, he felt little but cold detachment when he thought about a Taming candidate. Which was a warning in itself—he'd lived through enough emotional upheaval to know. He'd felt on the cusp of something for days, riding the edge of an epiphany, and now, he realized as his steps slowed and Malfoy pulled away, he would have done anything rather than face this one small boy.

"He'll be in his room," Malfoy said, nodding at the Matron who met them just inside the door. "He doesn't like to play with the other children very much. We're here to see William, Mrs. Fiddle, if that's not too much trouble."

She assented with a shifting gaze toward the staircase. 

"Thank you," Malfoy muttered.

Harry gave her a nod of thanks as they passed, receiving a thin press of her lips in reciprocation. Nice. Harry had known a few like her; they tended to run a tight ship. And discipline, where there had been none before, was always a good thing. As if he could read Harry's mind, Malfoy glanced over his shoulder. "Cheerful sort, isn't she?"

"She seems to know you well enough," Harry replied, continuing to deflect.

"I come here often."

Really? Harry ran a finger across a strip of dingy wallpaper as they navigated a narrow hall. There was no laughter to be heard anymore, though somewhere close by, a child was whinging. A girl, if Harry was any judge, her cries pitched high enough to raise goose bumps on his arms. "I can't say this is where I'd choose to spend my free time," he said to himself.

Malfoy missed a step, but caught himself. "I have little doubt of that," he said, and though he didn't laugh, his tone gave little doubt as to his opinion of Harry's declaration. He stopped at a door that matched the one in Harry's memory. The room beyond was also similar. The boy inside, however, couldn't have been more different—at least at first glance. 

William was propped up against the head of his metal cot with a drawing pad balanced on his lap and a well-chewed pencil in his left hand. Harry had a fleeting impression of sandy hair, freckles, and knobby knees, before the boy caught sight of them and lit up like the sun. "Draco!" He abandoned his sketching and launched himself into Malfoy's arms. 

Frowning, Harry examined the waif. He was young to be Tamed, but not too young. Still, whoever had identified him must have had a reason for proposing his candidacy. "Hello, William," he said when the boy had released Malfoy from his affectionate stranglehold. "My name's Harry. Mal—Draco's brought me 'round to talk with you. Would that be all right?"

William checked with Malfoy first, pouting at his nod of assent. "I guess it's all right. If Draco wants me to." He detached himself from Malfoy, returned to his nest on the bed, and hugged the sketchbook to his chest. "What do you want?"

Too late it occurred to Harry that he had no concept of what this child knew of his magical abilities. Clearing his throat, he lowered himself to the bed. William curled closer to the wall. "You see, William," Harry began. "You're a very special child."

"A wizard. I know." Another sunny smile for Malfoy. "Draco's told me. It's a secret."

Secrets upon secrets. It was a fine balancing act that never ended well. "Yes, I suppose it should be kept secret," Harry assented. "Not many people here at the orphanage would understand."

"They don't like me anyway." William's casual shrug sent a chill down Harry's spine. "They all pick on me. I hate them."

No, no, no. This wasn't fair. He shouldn't have to relive this. Not now. Not with Malfoy here, hovering over his shoulder and burdened by his own slew of emotional baggage. Malfoy—who had to have known that this child's circumstances would prejudice Harry against him. What was his game? Harry threw a dark glance over his shoulder and received a blank look in return. Malfoy didn't even blink.

William, he saw, was waiting for Harry's judgment on his remarks. Harry pursed his lips, nodding. "Children can be cruel—"

"Not just children," Malfoy added from over Harry's shoulder. 

"I hope they all die," William hissed under his breath, and Harry was on his feet and two steps away before he caught himself. Malfoy's hands settled on his shoulders, steadying him. Throat thick, Harry whirled, dislodging his fingers, and a second chill stole over him, far different than the first. Malfoy backed away, hands raised. 

"Calm down."

"Why are you doing this?" Harry fired back. "You can't believe this will help your cause."

Malfoy's eyes cut to William. "This is his defense mechanism, nothing more. He's been with six different foster families in three years. Abused. Neglected. Starved, in some cases. He doesn't understand kindness. Yet."

"Yet?" Harry bumped past Malfoy and fled into the hallway, then rounded back, fist bunched and raised, old pain stirring his anger beyond his control. A flash of blond hair emerging after him was the catalyst his temper needed. He swung, but Malfoy caught his fist in midair. He didn't try to strike back. 

He couldn't. The Taming wouldn't allow it. 

Sick, Harry stumbled backward, cracking the plaster when his back hit the wall. "I'm sorry," he choked. "Merlin, I'm sorry. I just…."

…nearly hit a defenseless man….

He swiped a shaking hand over his mouth, swallowing against the sudden, inexplicable taste of blood on his tongue. Malfoy, the bastard, looked calm and collected, as if he spent every Sunday engaged in fisticuffs with the most powerful wizard in Britain. "Is that your answer?" Harry asked when he'd regained his breath. "Kindness?"

Impassive, Malfoy nodded. He moved to lean against the opposite wall and folded his arms against his chest, pale hands gripping his biceps. "That and the other usual suspects. Trust. Respect. Love."

"And how much do you think those things will help? You said yourself, he's been neglected, abused, starved—"

"Kept in a cupboard," Malfoy interrupted. He had the nerve to smile at Harry's stricken expression. "Or am I getting my orphans confused?"

How many years ago had it been? Not the lifetimes it felt like, surely. Seventeen since he'd broken the seal on his first Hogwarts letter. Seventeen years against the ten before it—abused, neglected, and starved. His and William's similarities blended too well to ignore. His own friends had, at turns, abandoned him, believing him guilty of various crimes, even if those crimes had been against nothing more than their friendship. The truth wasn't always plain. So the question was—should always be, Harry reminded himself—was he seeing everything that was in front of him?

Pushing away from the peeling wallpaper, Harry stepped toward William's door. He took no notice of Malfoy's reaction, just inhaled deeply. The hands returned to his shoulders, and this time Harry allowed them to stay. "Thank you," Malfoy whispered. 

"You're welcome." 

How far they'd come. 

He half expected to find William drafting drawings of burning Muggles, or speaking in Parseltongue. At the very least, he prepared himself for additional threats against other innocent orphans and the rest of the cruel world. What he found was even worse. 

William was curled into a tight ball on the bed, sobbing. His slight gasp at Harry's appearance gave rise to a five-second glare before his face crumpled once more and he buried his head in the lumpy pillow. Harry drew in a breath, scenting the atmosphere for any trace of the dread he'd felt before, or at least for its source, but there was nothing there. Just a lonely, friendless child who had been dealt more pain over his short lifetime than he knew how to deal with. 

This time, it was a simple matter to sit on the bed and offer what comfort he could. His fingers bounced over the knobs of William's backbone as he rubbed his too-thin frame. "Don't cry, William. I’m very sorry that I raised my voice. I'm not angry with you." 

Mistrustful eyes peeked at him from beneath blond fringe. 

Harry tried to smile. "I think I understand why you're angry and upset. And… I’m going to try to help you. I'm not exactly certain how… Find a family, maybe? Can you be patient for a little while longer?"

The boy's breathing had calmed somewhat. "How much longer?"

"That's a valid question," Harry said. More than fair, considering. "A week." He steeled himself for negotiation: tears, threats, or whatever other things a fickle youngster might decide were appropriate bargaining tactics. Instead, William sealed the promise with a slight nod and a hiccup. Harry gave his back one more awkward pat and stood, but William grabbed his hand. 

"Wait," he said. Then, with a child's careful and single-minded concentration, he ripped a page out of his sketch pad, folded it once, and handed it to Harry. "It's for Draco."

 

 

Harry squashed the juvenile urge to look at the paper, but didn't dare trust his willpower any further than the front doors to the orphanage, where he placed it in Malfoy's hand. "William wanted you to have this."

Malfoy took it, bland expression never wavering, but he couldn't rein in all his surprise when he lifted the top fold to look. A few paces away, Harry watched a curious series of expressions cross Malfoy's face, but in the end, all he did was refold the white stock and slip it into his pocket. He swallowed, mimicking Harry's stance—shoulders slumped, hands deep in his trouser pockets—and didn't say one damn word. 

Harry glanced back at the building, homing in on one third-floor window where a pale, freckled face could be seen behind the glass. "Well played," he admitted.

"Is that a compliment?" Malfoy murmured. "I'm overwhelmed." 

"How did you find him?"

"A friend of a friend. I made no effort to hide his presence, if that's what you're thinking. As soon as his impulses became strong enough, and his magic escaped unchecked, the eye of the Ministry was on him. They've left him alone until now."

Until now. "What did he do?"

Malfoy shot him a bland look. "The ultimate evil act: he hexed two older boys who were beating him."

"You're saying it was self defense?"

"Since when does it matter what I say?"

Harry spent a few seconds trying to find the sarcasm in his tone, but failed. "So… is this where we strike up the tired debate of nature versus nurture?"

"Is it relevant here?" Malfoy strode toward the street, keeping a slow, steady pace and Harry followed. As one, they turned right outside the gates and followed the pavement east. "Aren't you more interested in whether evil is intrinsic in a person, and whether or not that evil ever reaches its full potential? It's potential that you look to destroy, as I understand it."

Put that way, it did sound oppressive. 

"You were hurt no less than William," Malfoy continued, "and you have no evil in you. Did you never harbor a vicious thought toward that cousin of yours? Or toward you aunt and uncle?"

"Every day," Harry said, then frowned. Well, if one confession was good for the soul, two—or more—could only be better. "I often wished Dudley would fall down a deep, dark hole and stay wedged there for days."

Draco tipped his head back to laugh, and for that moment, the stresses of the day disappeared. All Harry knew was the angular line of Malfoy's jaw and a pair of grey eyes that turned silver in the sunlight. The jolt was stronger this time, too strong to resist. Never breaking stride, Harry touched a hand to Malfoy's arm. Malfoy made a low, encouraging noise, and Harry curled his fingers to take a firm grip. 

"This is madness," Malfoy said, but turned and hustled Harry off the pavement and behind a tall box hedge. 

"Thanks for the warning."

"Idiot." Malfoy let Harry turn him against the hedge and press close. "I was warning myself."

"Duly noted." But that was as far as rational thought was willing to go. Malfoy didn't complain when Harry pushed impatient hands through his hair and cupped his face. His own hands landed on Harry's hips, and he brushed his lips over Harry's cheek, then across his chin. The sensation flamed enough lust to set Harry's knees shaking. 

"Get on with it," Malfoy growled, yanking Harry forward. They crashed together, erasing any promise of tender intimacy.

There were concerns. Things to be remembered here. Malfoy's Taming, that was one. And this mission they'd embarked on, that was another. Sex would muddy the waters, but then Harry had become convinced over the years that sex always did, no matter what precautions one took. So it wasn't until Malfoy rolled his eyes, muttered something very unflattering under his breath, and covered Harry's mouth with his own that caution was abandoned. 

The hedge was just substantial enough to keep them from falling over, a real danger with the way Harry's senses were spinning. Every swipe of Malfoy's tongue against his sent fire coursing to the tips of his body—his finger, his toes, and his head—while everywhere else throbbed with his climbing lust. Malfoy kissed like Harry remembered him fighting: brutally, taking no prisoners, and with a focus on milking the encounter for every drop of pleasure there was to be had. 

He acted as affected as Harry, writhing against him as the intensity built, mouth wide open and inviting whatever Harry was willing to give, which, if he wasn't careful, might end up being everything. What was real and what wasn't became imperative.

"Enough," Harry gasped, breaking away. The word accomplished nothing. He had to put a restraining hand between them and lever Malfoy back into the boxwood. 

Breathless and disheveled, seductively so, Malfoy blinked at him. "Why?"

"You can't—" Harry grasped for the thought. "You can't say no to me." And to take advantage like that would be worse than anything Harry could imagine. It was a mistake he might never recover from. 

"What?" Malfoy smacked him across the face, stunning Harry into a full ten seconds of silence. "I most certainly can."

"You hit me!" And yes, he sounded like a petulant five-year-old, but it camouflaged his confusion. "How did you do that? The Taming—"

"I didn't do it with intent to harm," Malfoy barked. "I was just trying to get your attention. And maybe alert you to how stupid you're being, but that was purely secondary."

It was an impossible thing to process. That was the second time Malfoy had brought up the concept of intent with regard to Taming, yet failed to explain. As if he wanted Harry to make the connection for himself.

His lust was waning, but not without a fight. He was still hard enough that the pressure bordered on discomfort. Malfoy's situation looked no better. He was swaying against the hedge, hand pressed to the front of his trousers. "I don't understand any of this," Harry breathed.

"That is becoming clearer by the second." Drawing a deep breath, Malfoy smoothed his hair with one trembling hand. "Tell me, Potter. Do you think I couldn't tell you no if I felt so inclined?"

"Well, I…."

Malfoy's sharp eyes missed nothing. "Do you even understand this thing you do? Have you any concept of what it takes and what it leaves behind?" 

There was genuine curiosity in the tone, so Harry put aside his own discomfiture and offered the most straightforward answer he had. "We take the Dark from certain people. Banish it."

"There is Dark in everyone," Malfoy said. "Even you."

Harry knew that, of course. Had known it forever. It was his most closely guarded secret. "That's not what I meant," he hedged. "It's like this, with us." He gestured between the two of them, his fingers brushing both of their chests in turn, as they'd yet to move more than a few inches apart. "You have free will, you said it yourself. You can refuse. Say no. But you can't hurt me." What more explanation did Malfoy need?

He saw the last of the passion fade from Malfoy's eyes. "No, I can't hurt you. That's true. On the other hand," he said, sliding away, "you can hurt me. And there's not a thing I can do to stop you." He straightened his shirt. "Except say no."

 

 

The urge that drove him to Neville's wasn't even subconscious. He wanted a friend. A friend's advice and a friend's company. He might have, in the recent past, gone knocking on Hermione's door, but the wedge that Neville's confession had driven between them, however unintentional, left Harry's stomach churning at the very thought of discussing his misgivings. He felt the traitor, and he couldn't even say to whom. At first glance, he and Hermione were both questioning the same things, but what if they weren't? Harry might be forced to choose loyalties—a terrifying prospect considering he had no idea who, or what, he'd choose. 

Instinct kept him from calling out when he arrived. The air felt different than usual; he couldn't put his finger on it. A decanted bottle of cabernet sat on the table, with two glasses waiting beside it. A bit early for wine, in Harry's opinion, which didn't stop him from nicking a tumbler from the cabinet and pouring himself a small taste for fortification. This conversation might go horribly wrong. 

The wine did its job, and his fingers itched to pour another, but Harry managed to escape into the greenhouse before his hand found the decanter a second time. The only sound was the hiss of Neville's fancy misters, and after passing through several rooms, Harry was more damp than dry, but the water vapor felt wonderful against his flushed face, so he let himself drip. The space felt larger than usual. Isolating. He knew he could have called out anytime, filled the space with noise and received a greeting in return.

He stayed silent.

A bit more wandering led him to the orchid room. Neville chose to grow the more exotic hybrids and cultivars, and there were hundreds of them, planted in and clinging to every available surface. Here, the winding, cobbled path was overgrown. Harry stopped under a sprinkler and lifted his face to the fine spray. It was easy to imagine himself in a remote tropical forest—the colors, smells, and humidity were powerful sensory stimuli—but he couldn't quite make the fantasy work. Too much time spent in his other manufactured garden. 

Hermione's voice jarred him from his thoughts. "I was hoping they'd be ready by this weekend."

"They should be," came Neville's quieter response. "Although it won't do to try to rush them to maturation."

"I know."

Harry glided through the orchid forest toward the room beyond, stopping just short of the doorway. Less than fifteen feet away, Hermione and Neville stood—their backs to Harry—shoulder to shoulder while they stared at the climbing vine that Harry had noticed a few days ago. He tracked its woody creepers up the glass. It was nothing short of amazing how it had grown. He almost stepped over the threshold, a witty remark about "swelling aphrodisiacs" on his lips, but Hermione spoke before he could. 

"Harry's seen Draco Malfoy."

Neville's face appeared in profile as he looked at her in surprise. "He has?"

"Draco initiated the meeting. You can guess about what."

Neville nodded, turning his attention back to the creeping vine. "Yes. You mentioned you saw her name on the candidate list."

Voice vibrating with tension, Hermione said, "This could be very bad timing."

"Or very good," Neville volleyed. "But there's little sense dwelling on the maybes. Let's have that wine?" He offered her his elbow, and the last thing Harry saw was the wan smile she'd been wearing so often these days. Mind racing, he backtracked to the kitchen at twice their speed and escaped the house unseen. 

 

 

This time, Malfoy didn't take him anywhere as cheery as a rundown orphanage. He also seemed unsurprised to see Harry at his door. It suited Harry to believe this was less because he was predictable and more that Malfoy had been practicing looking bored and nonchalant. 

"Back so soon?" Malfoy asked, but invited him in before Harry could voice his witty reply. "Your timing is perfect for once. If we leave now, we'll catch her before she goes to work."

She. Harry clenched his teeth, angry that, of all things, there was jealousy clawing at his chest. "I'm ready whenever you are." He got a piercing look for his tone. 

"How refreshing," Malfoy drawled. "Very well. There's nothing like a summer evening in Knockturn Alley, is there?" He held the door open for Harry. 

They descended the stairs in a line, and while at any other time Harry would insist instinctively, and by training, that Malfoy go first, it was an easy enough compulsion to overcome. Malfoy was no threat, and although it felt odd to think it, he was beginning to believe that that had no bearing on his Taming whatsoever.

Once on the street, Malfoy gestured left, toward the entrance to Knockturn Alley. "Take a deep breath while you can. The stench can be overpowering in summer."

It rankled that Malfoy was treating him like a child who couldn't cross the street on his own. "I've frequented Knockturn Alley before," he grumbled, setting off. 

"Potter, the way you say 'frequented' makes me burn with curiosity." Malfoy shouldered past, rolling his shirtsleeves up as he went. Following a moment later, Harry understood why. While Diagon Alley had been designed to let the breezes flow unimpeded through its winding turns, this place was an intricate maze of cul-de-sacs and dead ends, trapping the hot, humid air close to the street, exacerbating the stench Malfoy had warned him of. Harry felt perspiration bead on his lip before they'd even entered the alley proper. 

"Where are we going?" There were a finite number of places Malfoy could take him, but many of those tended toward dangerous instead of just dodgy. 

"A place that I'm sure you've never 'frequented' in your life. But don't worry. I won't abandon you to its evil clutches," was Malfoy's amused response. 

Rather than put himself at even greater disadvantage—Malfoy seemed to have the upper hand in all things today—Harry held his tongue. They traversed a number of narrow streets, backtracking at least once, if Harry's sense of direction could be trusted, and stopped in front of a plain red door. "Here we are," Malfoy announced. He knocked once, a series of three taps, and Harry heard a snap and a click. The door swung inward a few inches. "After you." Malfoy gestured Harry inside. 

He realized where they were, not by memory, but by association. The door had opened onto a lounge draped in yards of burgundy fabric. Heavy curtains hung at intervals along the back wall—and not to dress windows, if Harry's guess was correct. A sultry, spicy scent clogged the air. He wrinkled his nose. "Your friend's a…" 

Malfoy arched both brows. "A…?"

Why Harry felt the need to be delicate was a mystery, but he couldn't quite push the word past his lips. And Malfoy, the primitive bastard, let him dangle.

"An escort," Harry selected with care. 

With a ghost of the smirk Harry remembered so well, Malfoy turned and led the way toward the leftmost set of curtains. It led to a long hallway with doors down both sides, which they passed through without pausing. A set of steps guarded the other end, and Malfoy took them two at a time, loping to the next level. Harry followed, finding an identical hallway to the one below. 

Malfoy hadn't missed his disquiet. "Don’t be afraid. These are rented flats. Not everybody who works here, lives here." Malfoy shot Harry an unreadable look. "And vise versa."

The censure hit its mark, and Harry accepted the blow. 

Again, Malfoy took the lead, stopping at one of the doors closer to the other end—a door that looked as about as unimposing as a sheet of parchment. Wavering at its edges, however, Harry saw the telltale signs of privacy wards. Strong ones. They shimmered when Malfoy knocked. "Pansy," he said. "It's Draco."

How like Malfoy to leave Harry guessing until the very last second. If his goal had been to shock, he'd succeeded. At last check, Pansy Parkinson had been living in Brazil—taking advantage of that wizarding government's non-reciprocal extradition laws. 

Harry heard a squeal of delight and the door flew open. Lucky for Harry, Pansy's surprise covered his own. She'd never been a big girl, but neither had slim been an accurate descriptor. He remembered she had a tendency to glare, and that her straight, black hair had framed full cheeks and dark eyes. Time had not been kind; they were all still in their late twenties, but Pansy could have passed for a decade older. Her hair had lost its luster, and it hung in limp tangles around her face. The glare hadn't changed though, and she dialed up its intensity for Harry. "What is he doing here?" she asked, rounding on Malfoy.

Emaciated. That was the word Harry had been searching for. He didn't believe he'd ever seen anyone so thin who wasn't also rotting away in Azkaban.

"I told you I was going to try to bring him," Malfoy answered.

"I thought you were joking." Pansy clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. "What did you do? Bribe him with sexual favors?"

"Of course not," Malfoy said, but Harry blushed. 

"Liar," Pansy said without heat. She lounged against the doorframe, striking a pose Harry guessed she thought was sexy. "Come in then, since you're here." 

Malfoy entered, and Harry followed, still uncomfortable with Pansy's allegations. He hadn't been carried here by Malfoy's kisses. This attraction that had sprung up between the two of them, it was irrelevant. Not related to Pansy's candidacy or to Malfoy's crusade. Why this one woman's opinion should matter he had no idea. Except that what she suggested… it was possible, wasn't it? 

Or was it? Harry wasn't educated on what kind of subterfuge Taming prevented. The sheer amount of information he didn't have on the matter was becoming alarming. It seemed a simple question: what level of manipulation could a Tamed individual manage? He'd never thought to ask. Which could be shortened to: He'd never thought.

Pansy didn't have much, and what she did possess was covered in dirt or dust. Or dishes. Or discarded clothes, most of which were wispy and insubstantial enough that they'd not cover a cat. Even a small one. Pansy may not have worked at this brothel, but Harry figured there was another close by she called home. She caught him looking, caught him judging, and whispered something under her breath. He missed the words, but caught the tone, and his hackles rose.

Then Malfoy was there, in his face and blocking his line of sight. "Keep an open mind," he pleaded. "That's all I'm asking."

He was close, as close as they'd been to each other yet. They hadn't even touched, and Harry was breathless. "I'm here, aren't I?" He softened his tone at the flicker of apprehension in Malfoy's eyes, awed at how much he wanted it to disappear. "I'll keep an open mind."

Malfoy mouthed a "thank you", stepped back, and Pansy came back into focus, mouth set and hands on her hips. 

"How touching," she said with a sneer.

Open mind. Aggression wasn't an unusual defensive tactic. Harry pulled in a deep breath and gestured to one of the wobbly chairs surrounding the paint-chipped metal table. "May I sit?"

Pansy blinked, by all accounts too stunned to answer. 

"Yes," Malfoy said in her stead. "Please." He took Pansy by one frail-looking elbow and steered her into one of the other chairs. "Behave yourself," Harry heard him hiss in her ear. 

Harry opened the conversation. "I thought you were in Brazil."

"I was." Pansy took up a pack of cigarettes from the table and shook one loose. "Even the long arm of the Ministry couldn't reach me there."

"They weren't trying to reach you. You were never charged with any crime," Harry pointed out. 

"I wasn't going to let you… destroy me, like you did Draco." At her words, Harry glanced to Malfoy, but his full attention was on the tabletop. Harry detected no noticeable reaction. 

"You're saying you left in order to avoid Taming?"

She snorted. "You make it sound like I didn't want to get my teeth cleaned."

Is that what he sounded like? Chagrined, Harry toned down his flippancy. "I’m sorry. Is that why you left?"

Wide, dark eyes on his, she nodded.

"Then why come back?" Harry wondered out loud. Because by returning, she'd drawn enough attention to herself to end up on a candidate list. An eventuality that couldn't have come as a surprise. 

"My mother," Pansy said in a small voice. "She was ill. She couldn't come to me, so I had to come here to her."

"There was nobody else?"

Pansy's mouth dropped open. "She was my mother, Potter!"

Was. Harry clenched his jaw. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"I'm touched."

Well, that was sincere. Harry let it pass. "Tell me what scares you about Taming." He'd been precise with his word choice, thinking Pansy would balk at the implied cowardice, but if anything, her voice softened. 

"I'd rather not live out the rest of my days as an emotional zombie." At Harry's blank look, she gave a shaky sigh and waved her cigarette at Malfoy. "Draco, please." Harry watched him scoop a book of matches off the table and light it for her. The first drag seemed to calm her. "I couldn't live like that. I've seen—" She gave the fag a hard draw, eyes landing everywhere but on Malfoy. 

"You couldn't live like that," Harry repeated. "You'd rather die than be Tamed?"

He braced himself for a hefty dose of vitriol—slander directed at his family and friends, insults to his intelligence—but Pansy nodded. "Yes," she said. "I would." She tapped ash right onto the surface of the table. "Did you hear that, Draco?" she asked, voice shrill. 

"You know I did," Malfoy said. 

"Good." Pansy tapped her long, red fingernails on her knee. "Don’t forget it."

Malfoy slumped in his seat, eyes so bleak that Harry lost the thread of the conversation. Pansy reeled him back. "I can't run or hide at this point." She pointed to the glowing bracelet on her left wrist. It looked like a solid band of gold, and Harry had noticed it right away. Tracking and containment spell. She had the right of it. She wasn't going anywhere the Ministry didn't want her to go. 

He thought back to the mean-spirited girl he'd known at school. Not much had changed, in his opinion. This was the same person who'd wanted to turn him over to Voldemort before the Battle of Hogwarts. What redeeming qualities did Malfoy expect him to see?

"I can hear you thinking," Pansy said with a roll of her eyes. "What, you're wondering, could be gained by sparing this bitter harpy the gift of Taming?" Her eyes twinkled with mischief. "Am I right?"

Frighteningly so. Harry looked up to find Malfoy's eyes on him for the first time. "And if I were wondering that, what would your answer be?" he asked her. 

"I would remind you," she said, "that being a bitch is well within my rights as a human being. Especially as words are all I've ever used, or ever will use, to hurt anyone."

 

 

Malfoy's shoulder brushed his at every step as they walked back. The distraction was purposeful, Harry was certain of that. The reason for the distraction wasn't as clear. He made a point of staring until Malfoy acknowledged him. "Yes, Potter?"

"Why are you encouraging this thing between us?" Harry blurted, which hadn't been what he'd meant to ask, but it would have to do.

"Because I want it," Malfoy said, enunciating each syllable. 

"All of a sudden." That was harder to believe than anything.

"No. Not all of a sudden."

Really? That put a spin on things. The sort of spin Harry avoided as a matter of course. Playing the "what if" game served no purpose. What was Malfoy insinuating? That they could have changed history by acting on this sooner? Or was he just spouting nonsense to keep Harry off-balance, which was the possibility that unnerved him most of all.

They circled Malfoy's building, emerging from Knockturn onto Diagon Alley just as the sun was setting. The imagery wasn't lost on Harry—how the light knifed through the street at eye level, blinding in its intensity, and how warm it felt on his skin. How the fresh air rushed in around him, and his lungs filled to capacity with the sweetness of it. A little bit like being born, maybe. Or, since the situation called for something less fanciful: reborn. Malfoy stopped at the three steps that led up into his building. He didn't speak, just set his hand on the door handle and waited, eyes on Harry's face. 

Harry cycled through a dozen things he could've said and chose none. Instead, he reached around and placed his hand over the top of Malfoy's, and together they left the street and slipped into the dark stairwell. Desperate, as if touching Malfoy were all he'd been dreaming about for years—best to examine that thought later—Harry crowded him against the adjacent wall and gave the door a kick shut. Somewhere high above, diffused light entered the space. Even as Harry watched, it faded with the setting sun, moving shadows across Malfoy's face. No, that wouldn't do. Harry fumbled his wand loose from his pocket. "Lumos." 

Malfoy shook his head at the bright halo, his features now lit up for Harry's pleasure. "I don’t need the light—"

"I want it," Harry interrupted.

"Yes. Of course you do," Malfoy said, lips quirking. "Come here," he coaxed, drawing Harry forward by his shirt. "Everything's always such a production with you."

Harry fell into him, not at all concerned with the finer points of a slow seduction. They'd been down that road, hadn't they? That very long road. As further proof that ignorance, while bliss, caught up with everyone sooner or later, he couldn't stop his hands from wandering where they wanted, up over Malfoy's back, then down again, over and over, tracking lower on each pass. His sentiments were reciprocated, and whatever coordination Harry did possess disappeared when Malfoy's fingers curled around his hips and his lips met Harry's.

He'd be embarrassed about grinding Malfoy into the wall much later, Harry decided. In the meantime, he did what he could to temper his rough, unapologetic treatment. He snaked one arm around Malfoy's neck, the other around his waist, encasing him in a vise that he had no hope of escaping, though it did keep his head and shoulders from scraping against the uneven plaster. Not that Malfoy, with his biting kisses and needy, animal sounds would have minded in the slightest.

"That took you long enough," he panted when Harry lifted his mouth enough to let him breathe. 

"Shut up," Harry said into his neck as he rocked forward again and again. Already he could sense the edge—not dangerously close—but within sight. It was a sweet, anticipatory tingle in his stomach, a hot weight in his thighs. A few more thrusts, the feel of Malfoy's stiff cock against his, separated by so little after so long…. It would be incandescent. 

But not perfect.

Harry pulled back. Even a few inches made the difference. Here, he could still ride the wave without going under. Maybe. If Malfoy stopped making that damn debauched growl and kept his fucking hands to himself. Harry slapped them away when they wandered in between their swaying bodies. "Not here."

"I know it can't be your sense of propriety that's prompting our change of v-venue," Malfoy stuttered adorably when Harry grabbed his wrist and yanked him up the stairs. 

"Can't you speak like a normal person for once," Harry hissed, tugging harder when Malfoy laughed. Harry scowled because it sounded real—surprised and carefree, of all things—instead of bitter and condescending. That wasn't part of the script. 

Then Malfoy broke his wards with one simple password and they tumbled through his door. Here were the things that would make it perfect: privacy and a bed. With a flat, soft surface in sight, Harry lost sight of whatever expectations he was supposed to have and set his mind on getting Malfoy out of his clothes, which the bastard complicated with his impatience. "Wait your turn," Harry breathed, twisting away from Malfoy's fumbling fingers, ignoring how his cock surged against the frequent touches. 

Finally, success. Malfoy's shirt—every damn button intact, thank you very much—hit the floor, and Harry's momentum skidded to a halt at the sight of all that bare, pale skin. Dizzy, he spread his palms over Malfoy's chest, taking in the rapid heartbeat thumping under his right hand. 

Malfoy sucked in a breath. His nipples hardened under Harry's watchful eyes, and his mouth opened as if to speak. One swipe of Harry's thumbs over the stiff peaks ended any chance of that. His head tipped back in a moan, carrying Harry back to that edge so fast he had to bite his tongue and shut his eyes against the view. "Fuck, can't wait to have you," he said under his breath, garbling the words, but Malfoy heard. And he understood, too, because he lurched backward toward the bed, dragging Harry with him. 

"Then have me."

Nothing that easy-sounding should have been so damn complicated. 

For one, Malfoy was determined to get Harry naked. Harry had similar designs on Malfoy, which in the end, stretched the moment far longer than necessary, and this time, a few buttons skittered across the floor.

After what felt like years, Harry curled his fingers into the waistband of Malfoy's trousers and pushed them off. Malfoy's cock sprang ready into his hand, which was exactly where it needed to stay, Harry decided, considering how well it fit into his palm. His other arm traveled around Malfoy's hip, fingers dipping into the cleft of his ass. "Feels so good," he groaned, scraping his rough cheek against Malfoy's smoother one. Their mouths connected, and even the heavy weight of Malfoy's sex in Harry's hand couldn't distract him from the wet, hungry kiss. 

The room tipped, the mattress rushed up, and then they were prone, Malfoy on the bottom. It felt good enough that Harry nearly forgave the bastard for kicking his knees out from under him. Growling, he took a fistful of Malfoy's hair and thumped his head onto the pillow. "Don't do that again." 

Malfoy made that open, carefree sound that Harry was coming to realize was honest amusement. "Or what?" he taunted.

In answer, Harry drove a knee between his legs and edged them wide, and Malfoy's laugh gave way to a very satisfying gasp. Better, but not perfect. Harry took stock: his head was buzzing, his body trembled, and not much else existed in the world at that moment but the ache between his legs and what he wanted to do to satisfy it. He had plans, things he wanted to do to Malfoy—things he normally reserved for more tender, intimate moments and more tender, intimate people—but no matter how much he craved those things now, he'd never survive. This was no journey; it was a race. Next time, though…. "Next time," he said, by way of a promise, and Malfoy gave a sharp nod, understanding. His hand shot under the pillow and emerged with a stoppered vial. 

"Take care with that," he said as Harry uncorked it with his teeth. "It's expensive."

"Leave it to you to exhaust all your disposable income on lube." 

He took a moment to appreciate the delicious slip of the oil before sliding his finger down Malfoy's cleft—which shut him up and drove Harry right back to that precipice he'd been skirting since Malfoy kissed him. He dipped his head and closed his eyes, which made it worse. Every sensation narrowed to the tips of his fingers and the tight heat enveloping them. Then Malfoy moaned, shifted, and spread himself wider, and Harry had to open his eyes, had to look. Only force of will stopped his climax. "Tell me you're ready," he ordered, crooking his fingers, and Malfoy arched, then huffed a laugh. 

"Do you have any idea what that tone of yours does to me?"

Was that yes? Harry was going to take it as yes, and, in fact, when he rose to his knees and pulled Malfoy's thighs over his, he received a whispered affirmative. "No need to be gentle," Malfoy added. 

"Excellent." 

Although he was considerate, if that counted as gentleness. The strong animal urge to bury himself in Malfoy's body now, immediately, was difficult to stave off, but he managed, sinking in with sharp, but small thrusts until he could go no further. "Okay?" he asked, shaking with the effort to keep still.

"Potter, I swear to—"

Message received. Harry grasped Malfoy's thighs and bent them up. He heard the breath whoosh from Malfoy's lungs, but at least he'd gone quiet. Teasing him further might have been worth the pleasure, but the buzz in Harry's head was becoming unbearable, and his body was moving without permission, folding Malfoy in half as he fucked him. He kept to long, steady strokes that made Malfoy clutch the sheets and urge him on with wordless, feral sounds.

Next time, Harry promised as his orgasm rushed up on him. Next time he'd make it longer, make it different, but sweet Merlin, there was no way he'd make it any better, or any less devastating. He pushed in one last time, giving in to a small measure of the brutality he'd been restraining. The thrust carried Malfoy several inches across the mattress, and he shouted in Harry's ear as he erupted between them.

It was what he shouted that drove Harry over the edge, and there was no hope of holding any piece of himself back once he heard his given name trembling on Malfoy's lips. He could return the favor, at least, since he'd been the one to rush them to the end. "Draco," he replied, shuddering through his peak.

In answer, Malfoy gifted him with another quiet, but genuine laugh.

Harry lifted up enough to let Malfoy unfold himself, then followed his gentle pull. "Right here," Malfoy mumbled, guiding Harry to lie on top of him rather than beside. 

It was ridiculous that Harry found himself close to tears, especially considering how few things over the years had driven him to shed them. Malfoy's fingers began to trace lazy paths across his back, and Harry didn't just accept the intimacy, but reveled in it. After several minutes of this, his eyelids drooped, and a sigh escaped his lips. Malfoy gave an answering purr. 

At the head of the bed was a piece of paper, which, prior to their acrobatics, had probably been tucked under the pillow. Loose now, it was enough of a curiosity for Harry to stretch one heavy hand to pull it closer and unfold it. William's drawing, he deduced: a cottage set on a field of green and surrounded by flowers. A fat sun occupied the upper left corner, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Next to the house stood two rough stick figures hand-in-hand—a child and an adult with pale blond hair. Harry traced the sun with a fingertip.

Nothing made sense anymore. 

 

 

The interlude with Malfoy haunted Harry so profoundly that he found the normal scope of his life… unlivable. Formulaic. His distraction bordered on dangerous. It became usual to find himself standing somewhere—at the sink, at the window, over the bed—only to realize he'd lost several minutes while reliving their one intense encounter. He'd awaken and taste Malfoy on his tongue, or feel the ghost of his touch. Nights became a haze of constant arousal, and he fared no better during the days. But as time passed, he began to fight two niggling, inarguable facts. First, acting the hormone-drunk teenager was unbecoming. And second, he had responsibilities, not the least of which involved a decision regarding William.

It was that thought that stirred him to action. Because, for all intents and purposes, his decision on William was a decision on all candidates, past, present, and future. It would be a stand against something he'd integrated into wizarding society himself. His public withdrawal of support would be explosive and quite irreversible—not unlike Taming. Fate's bit of poetic justice, he supposed. 

On a personal level, accepting blame—also irreversible—would open the door to all sorts of monsters: regret, guilt, and depression, among others. Was it any wonder that his mind shied away from it all and fixated instead on how Malfoy had twisted and sighed under his touch? Recognizing the shameless (and unhealthy) conflict of interest, he turned Malfoy's owls away, messages unread, while he grappled with his conscience. 

On the fourth day after their urgent and fleeting tumble, he drank enough whisky to pass out on his kitchen floor and woke the next morning feeling more clearheaded than he had in days. I am through with this apathy, he wrote to Malfoy. Today, I act. He watched with a cresting righteousness as the owl glided away toward Diagon Alley. 

He Apparated to Stockwell after breakfast. Appropriating the child and placing him with Malfoy wouldn't be difficult. In fact, Harry could accomplish the task with enough discretion that it would never be made public knowledge. 

Which was the exact opposite of what he wanted, so, when confronted, he made no effort to be subtle. 

"I'm here for William," he informed the prim Mrs. Fiddle when she appeared. "He won't be returning, so please have him pack his things."

Mrs. Fiddle glanced from side to side, as if consulting with two invisible colleagues. "Do you have his paperwork?"

How satisfying it was to say, "No, I do not."

"But I'll need—"

"He's leaving," Harry said. 

With a sniff, Mrs. Fiddle said, "I'm not surprised. He's a handsome boy. I expected he'd be snapped up, once his other… issues were addressed."

"Other issues?"

"His Taming," she clarified.

Ah, he deserved that. He'd promoted the magic as a cure-all; they all had. So of course it would be considered attractive to prospective parents looking for a child. William would be a perfect son, who never caused trouble as other boys might. He'd never lead others headlong into danger, or take mad risks, or play a practical joke. 

Wand in hand, Harry glowered at her. "He's not being Tamed."

"He's… not?" she asked, confused.

"No. I've exempted him." And everyone else, but that was an announcement that would wait an hour or two. No sense postponing any longer than that. The sooner the better. 

"I don't understand," she said, shaking her head. "If he isn't going to be Tamed, then where have they taken him?" 

"Where have they—" Icy dread spread over Harry's heart, and he pushed past to rush up the stairs to the third floor. William's door opened to an empty room. Stripped of sheets, the thin mattress lay tipped against the bed frame. The wardrobe stood open and held nothing but several bare hangers. Harry came to a stop just over the threshold, heart racing. Mrs. Fiddle rushed up behind him. "Where are his things?" Harry asked, rounding on her. 

Her hands fluttered around the jeweled broach at her throat. "Forgive me. I didn’t know you were coming. He would have been able to stay among the other children after today. I'd arranged to have him moved to the boys' dormitory. He no longer needs to be isolated."

He hadn't needed to be isolated before. Harry held onto his temper by a thread as he spun to leave. It was then that he caught sight of it: the sketch pad thrown deep under the bed, almost invisible in the shadowed corner of the room. "Accio drawing pad," Harry rasped, pocketing his wand as the book flew into his hands. He clutched it close, aware that Mrs. Fiddle had reached to take it from him. "I'm keeping this," Harry said, tone as reasonable as he could make it. Not reasonable enough, judging by her flinch. 

With little thought to what was safe or proper, he Apparated to the meadow straight from the upstairs hallway. 

Finding it empty was little comfort, and he stumbled over the uneven ground toward the stream, breath tight in his chest. He hadn't thought to ask her how long ago they'd taken him, a glaring misstep on his part. It could have been yesterday. Two days ago. Last night wasn't outside the realm of possibility. They could have done it while Harry had been working his way through that bottle of Firewhisky.

He reached the tree line, gagging when gardenia-scented wind blew across his face. The trees swayed, and Harry swayed with them. "William!" he called. 

The answering voice was not a child's. 

"Who's there?" On the other side of the copse, a short, robed man appeared. He squinted at Harry through the trees. "Who is that?" 

"It's Harry Potter." Harry lurched forward, trying to ignore how the hem of the man's robe was wet, like he'd been wading in the stream. "Hello, Martin."

"Harry." Surprise colored Martin's voice. "Forgive me, but I’m going to have to ask you leave. I'm helping a candidate acclimate. It wouldn't do to upset him."

No, of course it wouldn't. Hermione always said the same.

"Is it—is he—?" Harry asked, stumbling over the words. 

"Harry." Martin's tone grew disapproving. "Please. I don't want to upset the child." He threw a glance over his shoulder. "I've got to get back to him now. Please leave." 

Harry dove deeper into the trees toward the stream. 

"Harry!" Martin scolded when Harry ran past. "What are you doing?"

What he was doing was confirming how horribly he'd failed. What he was doing was forcing himself to look on what fear and indecision had cost him. The sketchpad caught on a passing branch, and the cover ripped, but Harry took no notice. 

He came upon the brook and nearly fell face first into the gurgling water. William was chasing frogs in the streambed. He hopped from rock to rock, splashing enough water on his clothing to soak him through. Each time one of the creatures got away from him, he'd blink, giggle, then begin the chase anew. 

Martin joined Harry and took his arm. The hold was less for comfort than for restraint, yet Martin didn't press for him to leave. He smiled as he watched the Tamed child frolic in the running water. "It always warms my heart to see the young ones unburdened by Darkness."

Harry thought he might be sick. 

William missed another frog, then, catching sight of Harry, began a shuffling walk toward shore, grinning so wide that a trickle of saliva dripped from one corner of his mouth. "Hello." He touched a finger to Harry's chest, informing him with empty eyes and a flat voice: "I remember you."

Harry wrapped the finger in his fist and squeezed. "I remember you too," he whispered. 

 

 

But he didn't remember how he ended up outside Draco's flat—alone. Which wasn't how he'd originally planned to arrive. William's sketchpad was still cradled to his chest, bent and damp. Wrung out, shaking, Harry spent several minutes leaning against the door, forehead pressed to the rough wood. 

Some time later, it opened, sending him stumbling inside and into Malfoy's arms. "Sorry, sorry," Harry mumbled, getting his feet set under him. It took more effort than it should have. 

"Were you ever going to knock? Or just stand out there hating yourself forever?" The question lacked the scathing tone Harry had expected. Above all, Malfoy sounded sad, but even that wasn't right. Vague and detached were the words that came to mind. 

"William… I was too late." He tipped back against the door. 

"I'm aware." Malfoy let him go and spun away, sweeping his hair off his brow in a tired gesture. "I tried to contact you."

To let him know the date was approaching. And Harry had turned every owl away. Apologizing would be appropriate, but inadequate. Instead, he offered: "I was going to bring him to you." Malfoy's passive expression cracked, and the insensitivity of that statement hit Harry too late. Fumbling, he tried to make amends. "He wanted to live here. With you. He wanted you for a father." Did you know that?

Malfoy gave a clipped nod. Yes. 

"He still does, I'm sure. Perhaps…."

"Don't even think it." Malfoy's shoulders slumped. "I couldn't bear that. Not now." He sank onto the bed and stared at his clasped hands. 

"He still needs someone."

"Not me. I couldn't… you really have no idea. I've seen him… known him as he was. He's only half that person now. Maybe less. There will be others more suited to raising the boy, and I assure you they will find him. Don't pout."

Harry's failure was a cold, hard ball in his stomach. And yet Malfoy didn't seem to care. "Aren't you even angry at me?" Harry asked, his own ire rising. 

All he received in return was that same vague look. "Yes," Malfoy said. "I'm livid." 

"You're not acting it." Harry remembered how anger changed Malfoy, how it melted the layer of ice he kept around himself. He'd witnessed it often enough. Enraged, Malfoy was fire and wit. He was snarls and sneers. Merciless. Erotic.

Baffled, Harry pushed away from the door and shuffled forward, stopping halfway across the room. "I know you can get angry. You gave me a demonstration of that a few days ago."

That pulled a smile to the surface. Malfoy even chuckled. "Yes," he admitted. "You deserved that, you know. But you see…."

Harry waited in vain. After several seconds Malfoy shook his head and lay back on the narrow bed, turning his back to the room. "Go home," he ordered in a muffled voice.

"But—"

"Go. If your guilt drives you back tomorrow, so be it. But tonight… I can't do this tonight."

Harry's powerful sense of propriety had him backtracking before his brain caught up. He stopped so suddenly, he swayed. Malfoy's small table was a few steps away, and Harry made the journey without falling over, though it was a close thing. He planted both palms on the wood. "Now, wait. Just wait."

"Potter. Please."

Could those two words be packed with any more pain? Malfoy had almost choked on them. No, leaving now would be impossible. Abandoning him like this was unimaginable. Harry pulled out one of the two chairs and sat, noticing as he did that William's sketchbook still dangled from his fingers. He set it on the table in front of him. "What's it like?" He raised his eyes to Malfoy's still form.

"What's what like?" Malfoy countered, sounding so exhausted Harry's own eyelids grew heavy in sympathy.

"You know," he pressed. "Being Tamed." He cringed when Malfoy rolled to face him. His cheek was creased from the pillow, his eyes bloodshot.

"You want to know what it's like?"

Harry persevered. "You said you'd tell me."

"You want to hear it now. So you can punish yourself." Those hadn't been questions. Harry supposed that yes, that was exactly what he wanted. Malfoy tucked an arm beneath his cheek, a gesture too casual for the topic at hand. "There's no point in that, Potter."

"There was a time," Harry said, turning the pages of the sketchbook, "when you didn't need to a reason to hurt me."

That earned him a laugh that was tinged—not flooded—with bitterness. "Never," Malfoy said, smiling. "I always had good reason."

How could any one statement be both unnerving and utterly disarming? 

"Tell me," Harry said, turning to a drawing William had done of Stockwell. Skewed by a child's perception, no doubt, but shocking in its bleakness, the orphanage listed to one side. Bare trees surrounded it. William had added a lone person to the picture, high in an attic window.

Malfoy sighed and rolled to his back. Folding his hands behind his head, he said, "It feels… like nothing. It tastes like nothing. There's an emptiness inside and no way to fill it. You took a part of me away, Potter, and the soul—or the mind, or whatever it is you've touched—it isn't fluid. Nothing flowed in to replace the hole you dug. I can feel it. Every minute of every day. It's impossible to leave alone. I probe at it, like a child pokes at a hole in their gum where a baby tooth used to be." He cut off, swallowing. "It's cold there. And dark. Darker than any black magic you think you stripped away." 

Well, he'd asked, hadn't he? Harry pinched the bridge of his nose when his eyes started to sting. It wasn't even William he was crying for. "That isn't what we intended. I…."

"Of course it isn't." Malfoy rolled his head in Harry's direction and held out his hand. "Come here."

Oddly terrified, Harry went. Malfoy took him by the hand and drew him down onto the mattress. "You asked if I was angry, and I am. So angry that I'm unable to react at all, and that is your spell at work. Is that what you intended?" 

"I don't know," Harry admitted.

"In many ways, I'm dead. Darkness springs from deep within our hearts, not our minds. It rises from hate. And, anger, yes. But also love."

"I knew that." Harry found Malfoy's hand and stroked a thumb over his knuckles. That one tentative touch eased some of his ache. "So you can't love?"

"Chin up. At least nobody can break my heart." He tugged Harry down so that they lay facing each other, mouths inches apart. 

"Do you want to love?" Harry whispered.

"Doesn't everyone?"

Harry had never given that side of the equation much thought. Weren't most people more concerned with being loved? His chest ached with just how much he took for granted.

"Don't dwell on what's over and done with," Malfoy said, tracing Harry's lips with a finger. 

"Is that your best advice?"

Malfoy shrugged. "It keeps me sane."

It was nothing to skirt close and press together, and the sound Malfoy made was only half frustrated need. His fingertip touches drew patterns on Harry's face, soothing instead of arousing. 

"Why are you comforting me?" Harry asked. He didn't deserve it.

Malfoy smiled into his hair. "Because I can't help it. I have to."

"Ah." Harry cursed himself for reopening the subject. "The Taming."

The answer held a touch of wonder. "No. It has nothing to do with the Taming."

 

 

The one person he could think to go to was Neville. He found him in the very back of the greenhouse, pruning delicate fern-shaped leaves from the climbing vine he and Hermione seemed so fond of. 

"Again with the vine," Harry remarked, startling Neville into dropping his clippers. They clattered to the floor. 

"Harry." Neville's voice, welcoming as always, nonetheless held a trace of irritation. 

That trace was all it took for Harry to feel small and selfish. Neville did have other responsibilities besides holding Harry's hand whenever he felt in need. But today his need was too great to walk away. "I have to talk to you. Am I interrupting something important?"

"Yes, but don't leave." Neville shifted a handful of leaves to his shirt pocket. "Could you give me a few minutes?"

Harry choked out something close to "Okay," which must have sounded as pathetic as he thought it did, because Neville turned back to take a closer look at him. 

"Are you all right?"

"Not really, no."

Neville's kind eyes ran the length of his body, a nonsexual assessment, but an assessment for certain. Harry glanced down at himself and snorted. Several stray blond hairs covered the front of his black shirt. Neville's smile spoke volumes, but all his mouth said was, "Have a seat. I'm almost finished."

Harry dropped onto a stone bench as ordered. 

After an eternity, Neville joined him, cradling a dozen symmetrical leaves in his hand. The bench was crowded with the two of them, but Harry found the warm press of Neville's shoulder and thigh a balm. "I would guess," Neville said, nudging Harry and fingering the collar of Malfoy's shirt, "that this means it's over between us."

Harry's laughter took him by surprise, but it opened some of the thickness in his chest. "You deserve much better than me," he said, playing along, then added more mildly, "You know I would've been no good for you."

"It's all academic at this point," Neville rejoined. "So tell me about your current crisis."

"You're implying that I have them often."

"You've had a decent run recently."

Fair point. Harry dipped forward and buried his face in his hands. 

"Ah," Neville said. He patted Harry's knee and pulled him to his feet. "Let's go inside."

The sofa was softer and roomier, but if Neville had hoped the change of scenery would loosen Harry's tongue, he was going to be disappointed. Harry didn't even know where to begin. Should he tackle the issue of Taming first? Or would it be better to ease into the discussion with a blow-by-blow of his over-before-it-began relationship with Malfoy? 

"Hermione said you've seen Draco. How is he?" Neville asked, making the choice for him. 

"Miserable," Harry answered, thankful for the opening and happy that he didn't need to preface their conversation with back story. It was easy after that to talk about William, and Pansy, and a fair amount of what Malfoy had revealed to him earlier that morning. "I've been blind. Worse! I encouraged what happened. Facilitated it."

"All with the best of intentions," Neville said. 

Intent. Again. "That makes no difference."

"On the contrary. It makes all the difference."

Harry gaped. "So I have no responsibility? Is that what you're saying?" 

"No, that's not what I'm saying. But if you're ready to take ownership of your missteps, if you intend to make things right, then the damage is repairable, no matter how extensive."

"You make it sound simple." And Harry knew it wasn't. 

"It's anything but simple. All I said was that it was 'repairable'. But when in your life have you ever refused to meet a challenge head-on?"

Harry scrubbed his hands over his cheeks. "You're taking this well," he said, eyeing his friend. Well enough to border on suspicious.

Neville's mouth quirked. "Let's say I've given the idea some of my own attention these past months."

The pieces clicked. "You and Hermione."

Neville at least had the good grace to look embarrassed. 

"And you didn't feel it was important to share that with me?" Harry asked, incredulous. It hurt, not that Neville appeared moved by his pouting. 

"You had to reach this point on your own, Harry… and it's a very personal journey." Again, Neville ran a finger over Malfoy's collar. "There's never any guarantee that what moves one of us will move the other. And you have to admit, there can be no halfway in this. No doubt about where you stand."

No. It was for or against. All or nothing. Just like it would be with Malfoy. "And you say this is all repairable?"

"I believe it might be."

"How? We made sure the changes were irreversible, me and Hermione, and we've broadcasted that fact all these years. It's what made Taming secure enough for the Ministry to trust it."

"And we've done so well with that trust, haven't we?" Neville said with a hefty dose of sarcasm. 

Too true. Exactly as Malfoy had said. Some prejudices never died. Even worse, some were perpetuated on purpose.

"Here." Neville placed the delicate fern leaves in Harry's hand. "What do you make of those?"

"Your aphrodisiac?" Harry lifted the leaves to catch their scent. "Is it ready?"

"Do I look brave enough to slip you an aphrodisiac? Besides, I have a feeling Malfoy would find a way to hex me if I did."

"He couldn't," Harry said, glum once more. "You know that." Neville didn't answer, and Harry rounded on his friend. "Could he?"

"Maybe," Neville said, brushing the leaves with his finger. Intrigued, Harry pressed for a definitive answer. 

"Maybe?"

"Hermione and I have been dabbling with something. No, that makes her efforts sound trifling. She's been obsessed with this, working round the clock for months now." He tapped the leaf again. "I think we've got it."

Harry frowned at the tiny, innocuous splash of greenery in his hand. "A plant."

"Why is it that everyone is so quick to dismiss the healing power of plants?" Neville's dry tone lent a rhetorical feel to the question, but Harry answered anyway. 

"So it's for a potion? How did you discover it?"

"I'm not positive about the potion," Neville admitted. "And as for breeding it, I got lucky. Mixed this with that. Used the right soil. Kept it damp. Gave it plenty of sunlight." He shrugged.

"Lucky," Harry repeated. That was his Neville: brilliance without ego. Harry doubted any of his success could be attributed to luck. 

"I'm not one hundred percent clear on the details about how it will work. Creating the cultigen was my part." Neville pointed to the leaves. "How to use it once it's harvested, that's all Hermione."

The fern looked far too delicate all of a sudden. Harry resisted the urge to cup the leaves even more gently in his clumsy fingers. The hope of the world, in one small cultivated vine. "Will it work?" Harry whispered. "Will it give them everything back?" If it could, then no hurdle would be too high, no sacrifice too difficult. Malfoy wouldn't be empty anymore. He could be a whole person again. Everyone could be. 

They might even have a chance to make it work: Harry and Draco. One glorious, messy, resentment-filled chance. 

Harry took Neville's wrist in a tight, desperate grip. "Neville, will it work?"

Neville pulled in a deep breath. "Hermione says yes."

Then it would.

 

 

They came to her door at noon.

Pansy had been issued a date, but not a time, which was intentional—a Taming came with its own set of stresses, even if a candidate was ready and willing, as Helen Hazelpot had been. To add a fixed time to an already fixed date… it had been deemed cruel. In hindsight, Harry had to wonder if whoever had mandated that particular rule had possessed a Dark streak themselves. 

In Pansy's case, she had Hermione and Harry to reassure her. Noon, Harry had explained. They'd arrive at noon, and don't search for any higher meaning in it. For all the perceived symbolism of collecting a candidate at midday, it had been chosen for logistical purposes. Not too early, not too late—it meant those involved in the Taming were home in time for supper. These were the practicalities of an evil-free world.

They waited around the rickety metal table, nursing glasses of lukewarm water from the tap and not speaking much. Pansy wasn't the sort to require constant reassurance, which helped keep the awkwardness to a minimum. Especially since Hermione and Pansy's last meeting had been over drawn wands. 

Malfoy was a horrible distraction. For all the support he gave Pansy—a pat on the hand, a quiet word—his eyes rarely left Harry's face. To be the sole focus of such intense attention was intoxicating. More than once Harry found his thoughts wandering, shooting ahead to a future where Malfoy had been cured and Harry was free to spend his days atoning for the years they'd both lost. Though he'd be content if today's actions didn't land him in Azkaban.

Twice Pansy shot to her feet, panicked and ready to bolt, and both times Malfoy coaxed her back into her chair. "They'll find you," he said before she could say a word. His surety chilled even Harry. "Where ever you go, they'll find you. Stay. Stay and see this through with us."

"It won't end well," she hissed under her breath, but hooked her chair with one ankle and sat back down. She'd chosen a shapeless frock for the occasion, black, that hung in an unattractive drape over her skinny frame. In her left hand she held a cigarette, which Hermione had forbidden her to light, but which she clung to like a security blanket. She waved it in Harry's face now. "Why couldn't he have just taken my name off the list? Or called in a favor? People must owe you favors, right, Potter?"

Some did, but he wouldn't be pulling any innocents into the impending battle. He didn’t feel the slightest inclination to call her on her selfishness either; he understood her fear now. Malfoy hadn't pulled any punches. Still, her ordeal would be over soon, and today would never mean anything more to Pansy than the day she escaped Taming. For Harry, and for the other people around the table, it marked the beginning of a difficult campaign.

His new secret, shared only with Malfoy, was that he was looking forward to the fight. The cause invigorated him, as did his personal stake in it. His very personal stake. As if Malfoy could sense the thoughts spinning in Harry's head, he smiled. 

They all jumped at the brisk knock. Beside Harry, Pansy gave a little gasp, and Malfoy squeezed her fingers tighter. "Don't be frightened," he murmured. Neville and Hermione added their assurances.

"We won't let them take you," Hermione assured her. Pansy did a poor job of hiding her astonishment at the unexpected kindness, but managed a watery smile in return. How strange, Harry thought, to see them seated next to each other, heads tilted together as best friends might do when sharing gossip. Hermione's smile had been a more honest one than Harry had seen in months. A small victory, but a priceless one.

"How can I believe you?" Pansy asked her, voice warbling on the last word.

"Trust us," Neville answered. 

"Trust." She lost the battle with her tears as the knock sounded again, more insistent. "Draco? Can I? Can I trust them?"

Harry felt Malfoy's eyes on him, but kept his attention on the door. The banging had become more insistent. "Pansy Parkinson!" a voice shouted.

Ever calm, Malfoy answered, "You can." Then, when a dull white halo appeared around the frame and the door began to shake—and Harry stood to place himself between it and Pansy—he added, "I trust them."

The door flew open with enough force to lodge the knob in the wall behind it, and the Auror who'd dismantled the wards stepped through first. He had his wand brandished in front of him, as if he were facing an army of Death Eaters instead of one frightened young woman. Harry scowled at the shameless intimidation tactic. How had they come to this?

The man recognized Harry, and his wand wavered, but didn't fall. "Potter," he said, head tilted to the side. "What are you doing here?"

And here it was: the point of no return. "To alert you to a change of policy," Harry said, voice quietly stern. He'd left his wand in his pocket, and no one else in the room was armed, a fact that didn't escape the Auror's notice. He lowered his own wand a few inches. 

"I'm not certain I understand," he said. His eyes tracked across the five of them, lingering on Malfoy, before returning to Harry. "A change of policy?"

"Yes."

Two more Aurors stepped into the room, but Harry paid them little mind. Beyond, other doors began to open, and one by one, people spilled into the hallway, curious and ambivalent. The Ministry's Dark magic hunters wouldn't be welcomed in this part of Knockturn, though Harry doubted the people living here, many in hiding themselves, would have the courage to challenge them. 

"You leave that child alone!" an older woman called from the back of the group, and Harry bit back a wry smile when others murmured agreement. 

"Stay back," the lead Auror called over his shoulder when the crowd stirred, pushing forward. "This doesn't concern any of you."

"On the contrary." Harry made sure his voice carried forth to the hallway. "It concerns all of us." 

One by one, his friends stood: Hermione, Neville, and finally, Malfoy, who still had a hand on Pansy's shoulder. He guided her forward, and pale, but stoic, Hermione moved to stand in front of them both. Harry realized she hadn't missed how the Auror's regard had lingered on Malfoy. 

The Auror drew his robe around him like a shield. "Explain yourself. I have an order to collect this woman for Taming. An order that's been signed by your office! What do you mean by interfering?" At his words, the crowd behind him surged again, their protests gaining volume. 

"I mean to stop you from collecting her," Harry said. "In fact, I mean to stop you from collecting anyone ever again." 

In the hall beyond, the rabble quieted. Into this well-timed silence, Harry said, "No more Tamings." He caught Malfoy's eye. "It's a flawed solution. A cruel one, and we've perpetuated it with prejudice and fear. We're changing these people on the most fundamental level, altering them for our own convenience. That's not progress, it's slavery." He drew his wand then, but kept its comforting weight at his side, pointed at the floor. Whether he would have to use it remained to be seen. He wouldn't call on his power until it was necessary.

Harry reached back, holding his hand out for Pansy, and felt her cold fingers fold into his warmer ones. "You've done your job, sir," he told the Auror. "Now stand aside while I do mine."

At first, no one moved. The lead Auror and his team of two had formed a tight defensive triangle upon entering the flat. Each still wore matching expressions of confusion and disquiet. During Harry's speech, the crowd outside Pansy's door had grown. It seemed too many people for such a small space. The air felt thick and hot. 

Familiar with mob mentality, Harry recognized the unease and violent potential in the air—individuality and independent thinking always lost out to group cohesiveness. As did a reasonable balance in choice and thought, in many cases. It was a frightening parallel. 

"We're taking this woman out of here," Harry said. He moved forward, pulling Pansy with him. The first step was the most difficult. It always was. The second came a bit easier, but still none of the Aurors stood down. Neville appeared on his left side, Malfoy on his right. "Step aside," Harry said, lifting his wand as they advanced, but its sharp point never met flesh. At the last moment, the lead Auror yielded, shifting out of their path, and his subordinates followed suit. 

On the other side of the door, the crowd looked on, a swelling, shifting mass of sentiment. In their eyes, Harry saw everything he'd been fighting in himself: questions upon questions and no easy answers. The one certainty was that another war was upon them. He hoped the upcoming battles would be bloodless—they'd come that far, hadn't they?—but nothing was guaranteed. 

Nothing except this: Today was day one, and Pansy Parkinson was the first to be saved. 

Harry stepped into the hall, coming up flush against the press the spectators. They refused to retreat. Behind him, Pansy gulped for breath. At his side, Malfoy was a strong, steady presence.

"We're here to help," Harry said to the people who had gathered, his voice adamant and precise. "Now step aside. Everyone step aside."

The crowd parted.

 

FIN


End file.
